Compared to what I really am,
My image of my self
Is closed as tightly as a clam
Upon some tidal shelf.
I’m not as bad as I suppose
And nowhere near as good
But think I’m like a rambling rose
That grows in any wood.
I trail upon both branch and trunk
And creep along the floor,
And, though it looks as if I’m drunk,
I’ll always have one more.
It’s not until the close of day
That I can put my self away.
Photo by Peter Conlan on Unsplash
